Miriam's Talisman by Elenor Gill

weak, ineffectual statement, meaningless. The silence continued. Then I found another path. ‘What was she like? When you were a child, what was it like living with her? You never talk about it. Can you remember Ireland?’
    Hannah blew smoke into the room and tapped her cigarette carefully on the side of the ashtray.
    â€˜It’s difficult. Such a long time ago. It was another world, well two worlds really. There was America before that.’
    â€˜You can remember America, then?’
    â€˜Well, not very much of it. I was very small when we left and it must have been so different from the life we had in Ireland. There are just odd things, you know—favourite toys, playing in the garden. There was a swing and a slide, painted bright yellow. A special Christmas present. All the children in the neighbourhood were envious. I didn’t have to go to the park, you see, I had my own fairground in the garden. And the sunshine, oh it was so warm! The summers were long. Even in winter, in the snow, it seemed warmer there. I suppose the greatest difference was that my parents were together.’
    I watched as Hannah’s face relaxed and the faint lines of a smile crinkled her eyes. This was something new. Hannah hardly ever acknowledged the existence of her father. I tried to catch the moment.
    â€˜Were they happy there?’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose they were. Miriam shared in Harold’s work. They would sit for hours at the table, their heads pressed close together, engrossed in some small object. Sometimes they would call me to them, gather me into their circle. They would place a shard of pottery or a polished stone in my hands and I’d hold it as if it were a precious jewel. They would explain about its history and about the people who made it. I couldn’t understand all of what they were saying, of course, but I knew it was an honour, being allowed to share in their knowledge. It made me important, just as I knew my father and his work were important. “Feel it, Hannah,” he would say. “Feel the lifeblood of our ancestors. Feel it stretching back across the centuries. Feel the weight of time in your hand.” Then they would hold their breath, as if listening to some ancient voice and I would cup my hands around the treasure and try to listen, too.’ She drew heavily on her cigarette. ‘But, of course, it was just some sort of game they had got into playing together. Those things were just bits of broken ornaments and old stones.’
    â€˜But what about Ireland? Was it the same there?’
    â€˜Yes, I suppose it was at first. Then my father left and it was just Miriam and me.’
    â€˜Did she ever say why he left? Surely he didn’t just abandon you both?’
    Hannah shook her head. ‘I don’t know all of it. They argued a lot towards the end. She drove him away. But she was determined to stay on. God, how I hated that place.’
    â€˜Why? I thought Ireland was beautiful. I always imagined you were happy there. That’s why you hated the cottage so much.’
    â€˜Oh, yes, I’m sure it’s beautiful if you’re a tourist. They don’t have to live there. I can’t really remember our house in Boston, but I know it was a palace compared with that hovel Miriam insisted we inhabited in Ireland. And then there was the mud. It always rained. Rain upon rain, until I thought it would never end. It was a land of mud. Everywhere was covered in a thick layer of it. When it dried, it turned to dusty grit that found its way into everything. I always felt dirty. Our house had stone floors with grime between the flags. No bathroom, just that awful tin tub in front of the fire. Only once a week I was allowed to feel clean. And then I had to help bail it out with a tin jug. We would pour it out by the back door and it flowed down the garden, turning the path into yet another river of mud. There was no end to it.’
    â€˜Surely not